


Roman Godfrey Gothic

by Lipstickcat



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Gothic, M/M, gothic meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipstickcat/pseuds/Lipstickcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set season 1. Roman Godfrey, in the Gothic style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roman Godfrey Gothic

• His neck. You think about his neck, the way it curves and cranes as he looks up, tracking a plane carving its way through the watery sky. You know that he both wishes he was up there too, already leaving, going somewhere new, and also glad that he isn't impossibly suspended in the air, enclosed in a metal container that he can't just walk out of any time he wants. You think about the throb of the thick vein in his neck, and the way that it pulses faster as his own imagination starts to panic him. 

• In your dreams his chest is thick with black fur, his thighs too. In fact, everywhere your mouth caresses sprouts this dense pelt, until it's no longer a man beneath you but a wolf. It doesn't matter. He's beautiful like this as well. 

• You go to him on the full moon. The woods are a tangle of lianas. They hang from the trees like living spider webs. They hold the trees up and tear them down; you pass by an uprooted tree, clods of dirt dripping from its roots. At least, you think it's dirt. There are things above you, using the vines as rope bridges to pass through the night. They cackle over your head because they know that while the night is yours, the forest hasn't belonged to your kind for centuries now.

• He has a deer when you find him: His face buried in the open cavity, wet sounds of eating sounding distant, like the night is swallowing them the same away that he gobbles down a dark, glistening liver with a throw of his head. You want to join him, crack open that ribcage with your hands and dig into the steamy heat of vital organs, but he hasn't invited you and all you can do is watch. 

• When he finally notices you're there, he looks up and straight at you. His eyes are yellow, a shade you've never seen naturally in nature, piercing, toxic. His face is red, an imprint over his nose and following the contour of his cheekbones from where he's pressed his face into the not-so-long-ago living meatsack. Globs of sticky red catch in the bristles around his chin, wisps of hair double back wetly on his forehead. He stands, naked and streaked with dirt and blood, and it's wrong, you think and look up to check the moon. It's wrong. 

• You wake with a start. Your sheets stick to you and the more you twist the more tangled up in them you get. For a moment, you're a mummy, shrouded and entombed in your bed. You stagnate, frozen, the panic rising, and then you kick and buck and tear the cotton from your clothespin legs and throw them to the side. Your heart is tender in your chest as you throw open a window and light a cigarette with shaky hands. The moon is full and your cock diamonds. 

• You're hungry, for what, you're not sure. There's a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, and you wonder if it's just gastric acid bubbling and spitting, trying to eat you from the inside out for the want of meat in your belly, or if it's something else, something _you_ trying to get out. 

• This time you find him a lot easier and it's not a dream. At least, you don't think it is. Lately you've been having difficulty telling the difference and, with Peter, dreams and reality have always woven together in a self consuming circle anyway. He's a wolf at least, waiting at the door to the trailer like some deadly shaggy dog, so that's right. 

• The wolf devours the human flesh when he changes; it's enough to make you jealous, but you've wondered for months now how Peter hides the innards and skin from the turn back. In the pre-dawn light, you watch the bloody rebirth, a full grown human clawing his way from the maw of the beast. Part of you itches to help, but you remember a story your mother told you about a butterfly and you know that Peter's strength comes from all that he is, so you wait and listen to his cries and panting, until he's huddled on the ground, surrounded by gore and plants. 

• You laugh when he stands - there's leaves stuck to the ichor along his side, one just off center and flapping over his crotch, like a retelling of Adam. Your voice cracks; when did you last speak, or make any noise at all? You don't remember. He looks at you, bleary eyed, but recognizing. Blue eyes. Earthly. Human. Then he nods. 

• You fall so fast to your knees that you can feel the skin scraping under your thin slacks. The leaves rustle frantically as to reach with clawed fingers, snagging bloody lumps of flesh and stuffing them into your mouth. The meat is hot and already slightly rancid. It spurts as you chew down, juice hitting your nose and the back of your throat simultaneously. You reach for a rag of black fur and turn it over to tear sinewy white strings from the hide. 

• Is this a dream, too?

• Peter leaves you there, in the clearing with a cold light dawning over you. He climbs the steps and goes inside without a word. You think that perhaps he knows what is eating you from the inside better than you know yourself.


End file.
